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Milton

IL PENSEROSO.

Hence vain deluding joys,

The brood of folly without father bred,.
How little you befted,

Or fill the fixed mind with all jour toys?
Dwell in fome idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy fhapes poffefs,
As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the fun-beams,
Or likeft hovering dreams

The fickle penfioners of Morpheus train!
But hail thou goddefs, fage and holy,.

Hail divineft Melancholy,

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Whofe faintly visage is too bright
To hit the fenfe of human fight,
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, ftaid wisdom's hue;
Black, but fuch as in esteem

Prince Memnon's fifter might befeem,
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove

To let her beauties praise above

The fea-nymphs, and their pow'rs offended:
Yet thou art higher far defcended,

Thee bright-hair'd Vefta long of yore

To folitary Saturn bore;

His daughter fhe (in Saturn's reign,
Such mixture was not held a stain.)
Oft in glimmering bow'rs and glades
He met her, and in fecret fhades
Of woody Ida's inmoft grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, penfive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfaft, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And fable stole of Cyprus lawn,
Over thy decent fhoulders drawn.

Come

Come, but keep thy wonted ftate,
With even step, and mufing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt foul fitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy paffion ftill,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a fad leaden downward caft

Thou fix them on the earth as faft;

And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Faft, that oft with gods doth diet,

And hears the muses in a ring

Ay round about Jove's altar fing:
And add to these retired Leifure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But firft, and chiefeft, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hifs'd along,
'Lefs Philomel will deign a fong,
In her sweeteft, faddeft plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke,
Gently o'er th' accuftom'd oak;

Sweet bird, that fhunn'ft the noise of folly,
Most musical, moft melancholy!
Thee chantress oft the woods among
I woo to hear thy even-fong;
And miffing thee, I walk unfeen
On the dry fmooth-fhaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led aftray
Through the heav'n's wide pathlefs way,
And oft, as if her head fhe bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfew found,
Over fome wide water'd fhore,
Swinging flow with fullen roar;

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Milton.

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Or if the air will not permit,

Some still removed place will fit,

Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the belman's drowsy charm,
To blefs the doors from nightly harm:
Or let my lamp at midnight-hour,
Be feen in fome high lonley tow'r,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato to unfold

What worlds, or what vaft regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook
Her manfion in this fleshly nook:
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true confent
With planet, or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In fcepter'd pall come fweeping by,
Prefenting Thebes, or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,

Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the bufkin'd stage.
But, o fad virgin, that thy power
Might raise Mufaeus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
Such notes, as, warbled to the ftring,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did feek.
Or call' up him that left half told
The ftory of Cambufcan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarfife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That ow'nd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horfe of brais,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And it ought elfe great bards befide

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In fage and folemn tunes have fung;
Of turnies and of trophies hung,
Of forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus, Night, oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited morn appear,

Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont,
With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kercheft in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a fhower still,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the ruffing leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the fun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me goddefs bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And fhadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There, in close covert by fome brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garifh eye,
While the bee with honied thie,
That at her flow'ry work doth fing,
And the waters murmuring

With fuch confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd fleep;

And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy ftream
Of lively portraiture display'd
Softly on my eyelids laid.

And as I wake, fweet mufic breathe
Above, about, or underneath

Sent by fome spirit to mortals good
Or th' unfeen Genius of the wood

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Milton.

And

Milton. And love the high emboved roof,
With antic pillars maffy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Cafting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,
In fervice high, and anthems clear,
As may with fweetnefs, through mine ear,
Diffolve me into ecftafies,

And bring all heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit and rightly fpell
Of every ftar that heav'n doth fhew,
And every herb that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like prophetic ftrain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will chule to live.

Pope.

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